


Past. Present. Future?

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Catharsis, Cemetery, F/M, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a windy day, Spencer visits the place where Maeve is buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past. Present. Future?

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a happy piece, one that offers hope. I _think_ I succeeded, but I'm not sure.

Fall was finally here. The day was brisk, and wind rustled the leaves of the trees. Spencer pulled his seasonal coat tighter around himself, re-read the dates on Maeve's tombstone. There were other people here today, and he'd kept his head down to avoid conversation, or even acknowledgement. He didn't come here as often as he once did, but when he did, he wanted to be alone.

They'd known each other for ten months, and in those ten months he'd only seen her twice. He'd been afraid to meet her, had feared that she'd take one look at him and laugh, and that had kept him away from her. If he had agreed to meet her sooner, would he have known her stalker had re-surfaced? Would he have been able to rescue her before Diane pulled the trigger? He didn't have the answer to that.

_If I had trusted it when you said 'I love you', you might still be here._

The profiler shook his head. He hadn't come out here to be morbid. He still grieved, mourned for a life cut short far too soon, but time had dulled the anguish of the immediate aftermath. An ache instead of a stabbing pain. Maeve wouldn't have wanted him to mourn forever. If that 'I love you' had been genuine, and he wasn't going to insult her memory by thinking it hadn't been, she would have wanted him to heal. It was entirely possible for him to miss her, wonder what might have been, while simultaneously moving on with his life.

Elle was part of it, part of his recovery. She'd been the first of his co-workers to be not only tolerant of the way his mind worked but accepting of it. The fact that she had found value in his intelligence rather than simple amusement had been valuable to him when she'd been with the unit. Their friendship had been the reason he'd looked for her after such a long silence, and her initial reluctance at welcoming him back into her life had turned into something unexpected.

Was he ready to put the past behind him, to call things with Elle what they had turned into, a relationship? He wasn't entirely sure. He'd never been the type to play the field, so it wasn't as if he wanted anyone else. Yes, she lived across the country, but when they were together, she was the only one he wanted to be with. He doubted she was the kind of woman who said 'I love you' on a regular basis. The first time, she had surprised him. The next two, not so much. Was he brave enough to let go of what might have been and make what _could_ be a reality?

Spencer brushed the marble grave marker with an ungloved hand. It was cool to the touch, but he swore that he could feel Maeve's emotional warmth radiating towards him. He was too analytical to be superstitious, but he liked to think that she could see him now, that she knew he was doing much better. As his mother instinctively knew things about him, perhaps Maeve was hovering just beyond the veil. He didn't have to be able to see her to _feel_ or _hope_ that she was there.

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another."

He said it out loud, murmuring the words as he continued to rest his hand on top of the tombstone. He was somber but not morose, and while the grief was still there, it was tempered by hope for the possible. Elle having admitted that her feelings for him went beyond the sexual meant they were more than friends with benefits, since he hadn't become intimate with her as a lark. What happened now was anyone's guess. He'd taken _The Narrative of John Smith_ out of his satchel, put it in a place of honor on his bookshelf. Where he could look at it and remember the woman who'd gifted him with it. Remember her and not have it hurt.

He turned, his fingers gradually losing contact with the gray marble. The wind picked up, and he turned up the collar on his coat. Taking new steps towards what lay ahead, whatever that might be.


End file.
